


I Carry Your Heart With Me (My Hands Are Stained With Blood)

by whimsicality



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Bisexuality, Character Study, Death, F/F, F/M, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Humor, Occasional bits of fluff, Romance, Sex, Sexual Content, Violence, War, Woman on Top, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-03-21 11:26:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 20,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3690498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsicality/pseuds/whimsicality
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of scenes in the lives of Alistair Theirin and Anne Cousland on the road to becoming lovers and, eventually, King and Queen of Ferelden. After defeating that pesky Blight of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know people might be tired of Cousland/Alistair fics, but I still wanted to write this story for me, to cover the backstory, character development, and missing scenes, that I envisioned while playing the game.
> 
> This fic has been edited a lot, notably the shift to past tense, but other than additional scenes I'll be adding, won't be altered any more.
> 
> Dragon Age is a trigger warning in and of itself, but please let me know if I should add any specific warnings I haven't already included.

When Anne was eight years old, she broke her arm falling out of a tree. It was a massive, old, gnarled thing, out by the stables, and she’d been eyeing it with eager eyes for a year, waiting until she was tall enough to reach the best handholds. No one else was outside—she’d timed her attempt carefully—so no one heard the crack of bone, or her shuddering sobs. She breathed in jerky little gasps until the pain receded enough that she could move, and then carefully stood, cradling her arm as close to her chest as she could.

Her face twisted into an angry scowl, Anne marched toward the castle. She managed to make it halfway toward her father’s study before anyone stopped her. She glared at Margaret, usually her favorite guard—the only one who would let her play with the practice swords when her dad and Fergus weren’t there.

“I’m going to tell him,” she declared. And then added, because she knew her face was dirty with tear tracks. “I’m fine.”

Margaret’s lips twitched and Anne suspected she was being laughed at, which deepened her scowl. The older woman nodded. “Very well, Annie. But I’m going to escort you there, alright?”

“Okay,” she muttered in response. Their parents had told them never to argue with the guards, or Nan, because they were older and wiser and just wanted to keep Anne and Fergus safe. And because it was disrespectful and Couslands were always supposed to be respectful and kind.

It was hard to always be respectful and kind when she got excited or impatient, but Anne tried her best.

It was that rule that made Aldous her favorite. You were _supposed_ to argue during lessons, that was how you learned things. And Aldous wasn’t always respectful either, so he tended to let things slide.

He wasn’t in the library when they passed through and Anne steeled herself. Her father was going to be disappointed in her. He would have helped her climb if she’d asked, and she didn’t know if she could explain why she hadn’t. Why she’d wanted to do it _on her own_.

Margaret patted her shoulder and gave her a wink, then leaned against the wall outside the door. Anne lifted her chin and walked inside. Couslands always told the truth, and never hid it when they’d done wrong. “I made a mistake,” she told her father. His eyes widened and he dropped the papers he was reading as he caught sight of her arm. “I didn’t know the moss was so slippery.”

Her father stood up and then settled onto his knees in front of her. He reached out to gently touch the hand of her injured arm, before sighing and meeting her stubborn gaze. “Was that your only mistake?” he asked, his voice soft and his eyes warm with affection.

Anne felt tears trying to escape again and shook her head. She _hated_ crying. “I should have asked for help,” she said, grudgingly. “But I just wanted to prove that I could do it!” she couldn’t help adding, her voice rising in childish indignation.

Her father smiled and wrapped his arms around her, careful not to jostle her arm as he rested his chin on her head. Annie sniffed and buried her face in his shirt to hide her tears. If no one could see her, they couldn’t prove anything.

“Oh, Annie. There’s nothing wrong with asking for help. It doesn’t mean you’re not strong, or capable. And you, pup, are both.” Annie sniffed again and her father gave her one last gentle squeeze before pulling back. He took her chin in his hand so she had to meet his eyes. “Now, let’s go visit Nan, and her stash of healing potions. And when you’re better,” he paused and gave her a serious look. “I’ll help you climb the tree.”

Anne stared at him and then grinned, almost throwing her arms out to hug him in her excitement before she remembered how much one of them hurt. “I love you, daddy. And I’m sorry.”

He grinned back at her and then rose to his feet, resting his hand on her back as he guided her out the door. “I love you too, pup.” He squeezed her shoulder. “When we get to Nan, why don’t you ask her about the time Fergus tried to climb the shelves in her pantry? I think you’ll like that story.”

Anne giggled, and smiled up at Margaret who was still standing outside the door. “Want to come hear stories about Fergus?” she asked in a conspiratorial whisper.

Margaret laughed and pushed off the wall to follow them. “I would love to. Might even have a few to tell.”

Annie grinned in delight and let her father lead them out of the library toward the kitchen. She bet Margaret would like to join them when she climbed the tree. Not Fergus though. Couslands were supposed to share without complaint, but she was willing to break that rule once. The tree was hers and she was going to conquer it.


	2. Chapter 2

Alistair was cold and wet and covered in mud, and he was so angry he didn’t even care. He glared at the two soldiers watching him—one looked back with pity, while the other looked like he was holding in laughter. Alistair wanted to snarl at both reactions, but stared down at his feet instead.

It was the worst day of his life; there was nothing funny about it, and he certainly didn’t want anyone’s _pity_. The poor little orphan and bastard got enough of that already, thank you.

He didn’t want anything from anyone. He just wanted to be left alone, to continue living the kind-of normal, almost-like-having-a-real-family life that he’d been living for as long as he could remember.

But the Arlessa hated him and the Arl was in love and the King certainly didn’t want him, so it was off to a temple and, eventually, the Circle, for his new life as a Templar. He knew that the mages were the ones without a choice, but it certainly felt like he was being sent to prison.

The Chantry, he scoffed and kicked more mud onto his shoes. That was where all the unwanted children went, to learn about the Maker’s love and Andraste’s war. As if the love of some being who’d already abandoned them once could make up for not having a family. As if the stern affection—or lack thereof—of the Sisters could replace the kind of bonds he’d seen in _real_ families, the kind with kids they actually liked and wanted to keep.

A hand clapped down on his shoulder and he looked up, prepared to snarl, when he saw Bann Teagan’s kind smile and swallowed down his rage. Teagan had never treated him like a burden or an annoyance, and Alistair had heard him arguing with the Arl after Alistair was told he was being sent away. “I heard you got in a fight with a mud bank.”

Alistair flushed, despite the lack of condescension in Teagan’s voice. He’d only found out that morning that the Arl was escorting him to the Chantry _today_. He’d run out of the castle and toward the lake and, well, got in a fight with a mud bank sounded about right. There had been kicking and hitting and yelling and the result was that he looked like some sort of mud creature from all the ghost stories about Evendim.

He hadn’t been trying to make himself so filthy, but he couldn’t stop the hope that cleaning up would take long enough that he wouldn’t have to leave so soon. And maybe one more night, with Teagan on his side, would be enough to convince the Arl to keep him. To let him stay, even if he had to sleep in the stables until he was old enough to find his own adventure. One that didn’t involve a vow to the Chantry and an obligation to hunt the mages he was secretly fascinated by.

That hope died as soon as he saw the look on the Arlessa’s face when she and Eamon came down the hill.

“I’m disappointed in you, Alistair,” the Arl said, his voice deep and serious. Shame and resentment churned in Alistair’s gut and he stared down at his shoes again because if he opened his mouth he would either cry or yell and both would be terrible. “This is not the impression you want to make at your new home.”

The words made him really want to yell, to scream that it wasn’t a _home_ , but a prison for unwanted orphans and other abandoned cast-offs. But he didn’t. He grit his teeth and followed them back to the castle, and didn’t say a word as he bathed and changed his clothes and then was lifted to sit behind Arl Eamon on his horse.

He didn’t say a word for the entire journey, not even when the Revered Mother greeted him, or when Arl Eamon tried to say goodbye. He turned his head away and swallowed back the tears and the recrimination and the desperate desire to fall on his knees and beg to not be left there.

The Mother sighed and Arl Eamon rested a heavy hand on his shoulder, and then he was gone, and Alistair was all alone in his new _not_ -home.

Orphan, bastard, unwanted, and abandoned. He started to laugh then, unexpected giggles bubbling out of him. He tried to choke them back, until he saw the look on the Mother’s face, and then he laughed harder, arms wrapped around his stomach because it hurt but he didn’t know how to stop.

Stopping meant it was real. Meant he was stuck there.

And he couldn’t accept that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So according to my brief tag search, I'm the only person to ever write F!Cousland/Delilah Howe. Go me!

Anne gasped as Delilah mouthed at her neck, and moaned as the other girl’s clever fingers worked their way under her breast band. She used the hand buried in Delilah’s beautiful mass of brown curls to pull her head up so she could kiss her, reveling in the soft, wet heat of her friend’s mouth. Her other hand wandered up Delilah’s thigh, under her dress, until she found another source of soft, wet heat. Delilah bucked against her when Anne pressed up firmly with her fingers, and nipped at Anne’s bottom lip. Anne grinned against her mouth, and was about to slide her hand inside Delilah’s underthings when Nathaniel pounded on the door.

“Come on! Stop playing dress-up or whatever. It’s time for dinner.”

Delilah laughed, her head falling against Anne’s shoulder, and Anne sighed in disappointment. “You know? I always thought it was your other brother who was the oblivious idiot.”

Delilah looked up at her with a wicked grin, her cheeks flushed and her dark eyes sparkling. “Nathaniel is definitely the smarter of the two. But he also still thinks I’m a child.” She rolled her eyes. “As if he’s that far past the age when he was pulling the arms off all my dolls.”

“I guess that’s why your father keeps trying to set me up with Thomas instead of Nathaniel,” Anne said, pursing her lips in distaste. Not only was Thomas younger than her, he was also the sort of empty-headed noble she knew Rendon thought that she and his daughter were. Sweet, but without thought or care in the world. And certainly the least interesting of the Howe children. If she couldn’t marry Delilah, Nathaniel would at least be a better choice than Thomas. Even if he was a bit of an oblivious tit sometimes.

“Always the wrong Howe,” Delilah responded with a laugh, leaning up to press one last kiss to Anne’s lips before sliding off the bed to stand and straighten her dress. Nathaniel pounded on the door again and Anne grimaced.

“We’re coming!” she yelled, pulling up the front of her tunic, then wrinkled her nose at Delilah. “Although not the way I wanted to.”

Delilah giggled and then grabbed her hand, pulling her toward the door. “Come on, let’s eat. We’re here for two more days and I am definitely sleeping in here tonight.”

Anne grinned, following along with a lighter heart, and winked at Nathaniel when they darted past him down the hall. “Hurry up, slowpoke!”

He glared at her and walked behind them with a steady gate, clearly determined to prove that he was a real, serious, adult. Anne grinned back at him and then reached out to tickle Delilah before running ahead of her, laughing. She could still take Nathaniel two falls out of three in the salle, so she could knock the self-righteousness out of him later.

Adulthood, with its politically decided marriages, important duties, and the need to bear cousins for little Oren, would come soon enough. She was going to enjoy every second of ‘childhood’ she had left. Even if it meant that grumpy old men like Rendon Howe went on thinking that she didn’t have a single real thought in her ‘pretty little head.’


	4. Chapter 4

Alistair’s muscles burned and his tunic clung to him, sticky with sweat as he hefted the shield in his left hand and darted in low with the sword in his right. He grinned with satisfaction as it sliced a hole in Will’s sleeve and the other boy cursed poisonously. Will twisted, dodging just in time as Alistair’s sword whistled past his head, lifting his own sword to parry it. A high pitched shriek made both boys grit their teeth as the blades collided. Alistair turned with the motion of their weapons, letting the force of the blow propel him forward as he swept Will’s legs out from under him and brought his shield down on Will’s wrist, the other boy’s sword thudding against the packed dirt beneath them.

Will groaned, and didn’t bother getting back up. “I yield, you Maker-damned bastard.”

Alistair laughed, no trace of bitterness at a word that had often been used against him in less congenial settings. “I don’t know why you’re complaining. This means you don’t have to fight Tanith, and you know she’s going to destroy me.”

“You make a good point, my friend,” Will said, taking the hand Alistair offered to pull himself to his feet. He clapped a hand on Alistair’s back. “I wish you luck.”

“I’m definitely going to need it,” Alistair stated cheerfully. Of all the templar recruits at the monastery, Tanith was by far the best at combat. Alistair might be second best, depending on who you asked, but she still beat him three matches out of five. If it weren’t for her religious fervor, it would have been enough to make her his favorite of the trainees.

But he wouldn’t have to face her until after lunch and personal devotion time, so he pushed the thought of her righteous superiority out of his mind and followed Will back toward their quarters.

Lunch was simple fare—buttered bread, leftover roast from the night before, and an apple. He scowled at the conspicuous lack of cheese; it seemed that Brother Felix was still punishing him for the stunt with the Revered Mother’s hat.

After lunch they were supposed to retire to their rooms, or the chapel, to contemplate their service to the Maker and their understanding of the Chant of Light as it applied to their future duties. Alistair had made a few genuine attempts at those tasks over the years, and had fallen sound asleep every time. There had been snoring involved. And rude awakenings via a slap upside the head from Mother Marana.

After being harangued in front of the other recruits one too many times, Alistair had decided to avoid the chapel, and religious contemplation, entirely. Which left him with an hour to fill and very few inconspicuous options.

Despite his lack of religious devotion, it still felt improper to use the time for the more _personal_ pursuits as some of the other less devout recruits did. 

Luckily, the monastery had a large library, open to all who lived and studied there. There were a surprising number of decidedly not-Andrastian texts stored there, in part thanks to the knowledge-hoarding tendencies of the Sister who was head Archivist, and in part because the Chantry believed you should know the truth of your enemy in order to combat them.

Alistair respected the tactical thinking there, even if he often disagreed with the definition of said enemies, but mostly he just loved the books. There were tomes on the history of Ferelden and Thedas, treatises on magic by Tevinter magisters, biographies of various Divines and rulers, even texts on the complicated nobility structure of Orlais. The only difficult choice involved was what to read next when he had so many options.

He’d read a little bit of everything, but had a few favorites. His enjoyment of the various texts by mages made him grateful that he was able to pass off his particular fascination with magic as a need to know what he would be facing as a Templar, and grateful that despite what they would like you to believe, the Sisters could not actually read minds. History was a favorite, and tomes on military leaders and strategies. He occasionally chose texts on politics and nobility, morbidly curious about the life he could have lived if his mother had been the King’s wife instead of a maid. But his real guilty pleasure were the adventure stories, particularly the smutty ones.

Checking to make sure that Sister Kenna, the dread guardian of the archives, was nowhere in sight, Alistair slipped the Adventures of the Black Fox off the shelf and carried it to his favorite reading spot. There was a window with a built in bench set in a secluded alcove that offered privacy and light, and he considered himself lucky that few other templar recruits had the inclination or temerity to brave the archives in search of their own privacy.

It was the closest thing he had to a true refuge, here in this life he’d been assigned to, and with every day bringing the assumption of his duties closer, he intended to enjoy it while he could.


	5. Chapter 5

Anne stared down at her hands, clenched into fists around her horse’s reins, and worked on reining in her own temper. She almost startled out of her saddle when her father cleared his throat, her heart racing as she became aware of the world around her. She looked up to meet his gaze and grimaced at the concern she saw there. “Are you alright, Annie? Usually you enjoy the Landsmeets; I know you and Bann Alfstanna have formed quite the friendship. Did something happen?”

Mood momentarily lifted, Anne bit back a smile, wondering how her father would react to the knowledge of just _how_ close her friendship with Alfstanna was. “What is your opinion of the Arl of Denerim?” she asked him, her eyebrows pinching together in a frown.

Her father considered for a moment, searching for the right words. She trusted him to be honest, and he rewarded that trust. “He’s not prone to any vices, a decent sort, but weak willed. He is not careful with his responsibilities to the people of Denerim.”

Anne sighed. “Well his son is a Maker-forsaken lout who doesn’t know how to keep his hands to himself.” Her eyes were dark with rage and her hands had clenched into fists again. “I grieve for any woman in Denerim whose lack of rank won’t allow her to fight back with impunity.”

There was a momentary shadow of similar anger visible on her father’s face and then he fixed her with a serious stare. “Did he touch you against your will?”

She shook her head. “He tried. I knocked him on his ass. He’s lucky I didn’t break anything. Like his arm.” Just his pride, and part of her regretted that, sure he would take his frustrated rage out on the next woman to cross his path. A woman who might not be lucky enough to have the training and social protection to resist. But accepting his advances hadn’t been an option, and her anger at his actions and smug certainty that they would be well received had pushed her to a more than firm refusal.

She certainly didn’t regret the look on his face. Would treasure it for the rest of her life in fact.

Before her father could respond, the thudding sound of frantic hoofbeats reached their ears. The two Cousland guards escorting them immediately moved their horses in front of Anne and her father, standing between them and whoever was coming with such haste.

Anne’s curiosity faded into worry as she recognized Brin, a boy from Harper’s Ford. His horse, a sturdy mountain pony, was glistening with sweat, and Brin’s eyes were wild until he recognized them. “My Lord Cousland!” he called, his voice cracking with puberty and stress. 

“What is it, Brin,” her father asked, his voice gentle despite its firmness. “What has happened?”

“Bandits, ser. In the fields.”

Regin snarled under her breath and Anne bit her lip. Bandits rarely ventured this far into Highever, history had proven that any response would be swift and violent. But rarely didn’t mean never. Her father looked at her and she could see the worry hiding behind his tight jaw. She moved her left hand to the pommel of her sword and met his gaze without hesitation. 

He nodded, a short and jerking motion, and then they were off, following Brin as fast they dared pushed his horse. Anne did her best to keep her anger and fear under control, focusing on her lessons. She was good with her sword and her knife, better than Fergus and her father in the salle. But the salle wasn’t real life and she’d never fought someone trying to kill her before. 

She’d never tried to kill someone else before. What if she couldn’t? What if—

The bittersweet scent of burning ryott filled her nose and she saw Brin’s older sister fending off a bandit with a staff while clutching a bleeding wound in her side. What if’s faded into hazy ghosts, replaced with the taste of copper in her mouth and the sickening sound of blade against flesh as she swung her sword at the man’s neck, knocking him to the ground to be trampled beneath Thea’s hooves.

Faith met her gaze—gratitude, grief, and fierce satisfaction gleaming in her eyes—and Anne bared her teeth in an acknowledging and equally fierce grin before sending Thea after the nearest brigand. 

When the last of the bandits fled back toward the hills where they camped, there were seven dead on the ground. Five attackers and two of their own. Anne knew Osbern, but the other man, barely more than a boy, was not someone she’d met. Staring at his face, slack in death, felt all the more obscene without knowing his name. 

Knowing she’d killed the man who’d murdered him provided slim satisfaction.

Her father had been speaking with Faith, the oldest survivor of the attack, but turned to pull Anne into his side, ignoring the blood that stained both of their hands and tunics. “Regin will take a squad and make sure the rest of them are arrested so they can be tried for their crimes.”

Faith nodded in grim satisfaction. “We’ll be there to witness, ser, just send word.”

He nodded and hugged Anne a little closer to his side. “If there’s anything you need for the ceremonies, or to make up for what was lost in the fire, we will provide it.”

Faith nodded again, a softer, sadder expression on her face, and Anne spoke up. “I’d like to attend them, the ceremonies. Will they be tonight?”

“Tomorrow night,” Faith said. “At the lake, and we would be happy to have you.” Faith’s smile turned sharp. “I won’t be the only one grateful for your sword.”

Anne shifted against her father’s side, the wet sound of a bandit’s skull cracking beneath Thea’s hooves echoing in her mind. “I’ll be there,” she said, in lieu of anything else, and let her father lead her back to their horses.

“I’m proud of you,” he murmured, kissing the side of her head before giving her a boost into Thea’s saddle.

Anne took a deep breath and managed a real smile for him. They’d done the right thing, the _only_ thing, and she refused to regret the death of men who slaughtered indiscriminately. She stared down at her hands, still bloodied, and made a face. Any other introspection could wait until she’d bathed and wasn’t literally wearing the remains of the first person she’d ever killed.

And until after she’d attended the funerals of those they’d been too late to save.


	6. Chapter 6

Alistair found himself grateful for the discipline instilled by his Templar training for the first time in his life during his first weeks with the wardens. Duncan had him up earlier than the sun, training in the sort of unconventional, down and dirty tactics that Training Master Markus would never have approved of. Lunch was eaten on the move, following Duncan around Denerim as he worked with the other Wardens, met with Loghain and the King, and tried to gather more recruits for the cause. Evenings were spent on strategy and stories of the Wardens, oral histories of the men and women who had sacrificed everything to keep the Darkspawn from overrunning them all.

Well, and the drinking. One couldn’t forget the drinking.

Alistair hadn’t had more than a few stolen sips of wine and ale in his entire life before Duncan rescued him from the Chantry and a life of puppet-like devotion to a cause he’d never believed in. But the Wardens. The Wardens drank ale, and harder, like it was water. Alistair had spent two straight weeks throwing up his breakfast before he began to build a tolerance. Duncan had kindly refrained from laughing at him, instead offering the advice that chewing on an elfroot leaf was an excellent way to relieve the symptoms of alcohol sickness.

One of the many things that made it difficult for Alistair to be as mad at the man as he wanted to. 

Duncan _knew_.

He knew who Alistair was. Who his father was. His brother. He _knew_. And Alistair didn’t know how to believe that the royal blood running through his veins wasn’t the reason he was here. Didn’t know how not to believe that, once again, it wasn’t his skill or his decisions or him at all that had any bearing on where he was, on _what_ he was. Didn’t know how to forgive the man he’d seen as his savior for giving him freedom with one hand and yanking it away with the other.

In addition to all his other talents, Duncan was far more observant than the Brothers and Sisters at the Chantry. He let Alistair stew for a week after telling him, then pulled him away from the other wardens when they’d descended into the nightly round of drinking songs.

He was silent at first, his face raised to the evening breeze as they stood in the quiet courtyard, empty of its usual hustle and bustle. Alistair shifted restlessly from foot to foot. He hated this trick. Revered Mother Marana had been an excellent wielder of it. Silent staring until your own fool mouth took over and you confessed to stealing her hat and scaling the statue of Andraste to give her some decoration.

But Duncan surprised him by speaking first. “I recruited you because you have the skill and determination to be an excellent Warden. I would have recruited you if you were not Maric’s son.” He turned to look at Alistair, his expression opaque in the dim light of the stars and distant lanterns. “I went to the temple because of who your father was. I took you with me because of who you are.”

Alistair opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened again. No words actually emerged, gratitude and doubt and other, harder to define emotions, making his gut feel as turbulent as it did after too much drinking.

Duncan reached out and gripped his shoulder, a brief smile breaking the severe lines of his face. “You deserve to be here, brother. And no one but you doubts that.” Before Alistair could stammer something stupid and insufficient in response, Duncan squeezed his shoulder then let go and gave him a gentle shove in the direction of the doors. “I don’t think we’ve heard you sing yet, I think it’s time we rectified that.”

Alistair laughed, then groaned. “You’re going to regret that decision shortly. They didn’t even make me sing at the Chantry, not after the first time.”

Duncan smirked at him and Alistair grinned back, hoping the other man could see the gratitude he didn’t have the words to express. The Templars had given him discipline, but Duncan had given him a home.


	7. Chapter 7

“Do you think it is a real Blight, father?” Anne asked, watching him pace by the fire as she rested her chin on her hands. The rumors coming out of the south grew darker by the day, and she feared for what it meant if this was more than a large Darkspawn raid. She had studied her history well, under Aldous, and she knew how much devastation was caused by earlier blights. The thought of such death and destruction brought to Ferelden, to her home…it was too terrible to even imagine.

Even if it had helped delay talk of why a woman her age wasn’t even betrothed.

“I don’t know, pup. I hope not,” her father said somberly, his tone echoing her silent fears. “But the Wardens seem confident, and we must battle the horde either way. Cailan and his troops should have set out for Ostagar yesterday, and we must join them soon.”

Anne sighed, glancing down at the supply lists she’d been working on before looking back up at her father and brother with a wry smile. “When you say we…”

Fergus grinned and her father gave her a knowing look. “I mean me and Fergus, pup. You’ll stay here, to keep watch over the castle and the lands. We can’t abandon our people, especially if it is a true Blight.”

Anne made a face. She agreed with her father, she did. She just didn’t see why it couldn’t be _Fergus_ who stayed, instead of her. He was going to be the next Teyrn after all. So didn’t it make more sense for her to fight at her father’s side?

She knew better than to voice that argument, and instead nodded her acquiescence. Duty was the Cousland birthright, the responsibility to continually earn the right to their title and lands through hard work and dedication. She would do her part, and she would do it well. However much she might wish for other duties, other parts to play.

“Well, then let’s make sure we have enough horses for everyone, shall we?” she said in a light tone, winking at her father.

Fergus groaned. “It was one time! And it was just a practice exercise anyways.” He clearly regretted the words as soon as he said them, flushing in embarrassment that made Anne grin. No matter old Fergus grew, wife and child and all, he still forgot to think before he spoke and she loved him for it.

Their father just raised his eyebrows before returning to his seat and reaching for the nearest stack of papers. Fergus gave her a mock glare and poked her side when he sat down, but didn’t say anything else.

Anne looked down at the desk and smiled. The weight of the Cousland name and responsibilities was more than worth it for her family, and she was going to make sure they were as prepared as possible to make it safely back home.

Her smile faded into a grimace. Besides, if it was a true Blight, they’d all get their fill of fighting soon enough.


	8. Chapter 8

"I'll take first watch." Anne Cousland's voice was quiet, but hardened by a razor sharp edge of pain and rage. They were her first words since they'd left Castle Highever in the middle of the night, not stopping more than moments until now, after the rest of that night and a full day after. She smiled at him, a bitter twist of lips. "I won't be sleeping anyways."

Duncan nodded, accepting her words and her offer. She would need to sleep soon, or risk collapse, but forcing the matter would not help. Nor was it his place to dictate how she grieved, at least until they reached Ostagar and the Joining ritual he had little doubt she would survive.

If she had not broken from Arl Howe's treachery, from leaving her parents to their deaths and accepting a duty that was likely to bring her own sooner rather than later, he did not think the darkspawn taint would conquer her.

Anne had turned away from him, sitting several yards from the fire with her back to it so it would not unduly hinder her night vision. Her hound was by her side, leaning against her and probably providing more comfort than any words Duncan could have summoned.

This was not how he’d wished to recruit the Teyrn's youngest child, and he had intended to have at least one more recruit for this trip: her father's knight Ser Gilmore. But if she did indeed survive, then Anne's training as a warrior and as the 'spare heir' to Ferelden's highest title other than King would be a boon to the wardens. The Grey Wardens were not supposed to involve themselves in political matters, but the practical side of fighting a war, even a war such as theirs, dictated the support of the ruling powers. And another voice that could give insight into and assistance with the complicated relationship between Cailan and Loghain would be greatly appreciated.

Duncan grimaced, wishing there was a way to send word ahead to Ostagar of what had occurred. But they couldn't risk it. Howe surely had men on the road searching for them, and may have had men in place at Ostagar to deal with Anne's brother and the rest of the Cousland forces before or after their arrival.

If they were on horseback, he and Anne could have potentially caught up to her brother. Two could travel faster than an army, even a small one. But they were on foot, and forced to travel off the main roads. All Howe needed to do to ensure that his version of the attack was the one accepted was to kill them before they could tell the King differently.

For the sake of his new recruit, and for the Blight which needed both of them alive, they could not take any senseless risks.

Duncan forced himself to sleep, trusting the woman and her hound to keep them safe, and was pleased when she woke him after several hours for his watch. He had half-feared she'd try to take the whole night, and suffer for it on the road the next day.

He did not know how much she slept, if at all, but she did try, and he did not acknowledge any sounds he heard from her bedroll.

Some pains were not lessened when shared.

They had been on the road for several hours the next day when she spoke again, her eyes brighter than they had been and her jaw set with determination. "Tell me of the Grey Wardens, and the situation at Ostagar.”

Duncan smiled grimly and began to answer her questions. That determination would serve the wardens well, and Arl Howe ill. He couldn’t have asked for anything more.

Except for maybe some horses.


	9. Chapter 9

Alistair made a face as soon as the revered mother turned away from him. He wished Duncan hadn’t felt it necessary to let him be used as an errand boy in order to secure further good will for the Grey Wardens. Not that he didn’t understand or agree with the idea, but he doubted that it would work.

People had to be _willing_ to get along, and while the relationship between the King’s men and the Grey Wardens was a friendly one, largely thanks to Cailan, the other factions in camp were not going to be so cooperative.

And the revered mother choosing him to be her voice to the mages wasn’t going to help the situation any.

But it was a bit too late to protest, so he set off to find the mage in question and hoped that Duncan arrived soon so he could return to the duties he escaped being a Templar for. One more night with just Daveth’s attempts to woo every woman in camp and Jory’s awkward formality, and he’d be volunteering to do far worse than run the revered mother’s errands.

~

Anne watched the conversation between the Grey Warden and the mage with interest. There were many things left unsaid in the tension between the two men, and she wondered what drove it. She was admittedly not as well versed on mages and the Circle as she could have been—her education having focused on the politics and history of Ferelden and of course her training—and she wondered if anyone sent with a message from the Chantry would have been received so ill, or if there was some bad blood between Grey Wardens and the Circle that she should be aware of.

Finally the mage stalked off and the Grey Warden, Alistair, turned toward her with a rueful grin. “You know, one good thing about the blight is how it brings people together,” he said with cheerful sarcasm.

Anne bit back a bitter chuckle at all the things hidden in that statement, including those Alistair wasn’t aware of, and gave him a sharp smile. “I know exactly what you mean.”

His grin widened. “It’s like a party. We could all stand in a circle and hold hands. _That_ would give the darkspawn something to think about.” She smiled back at him, unable not to, and he tilted his head to the side. “Wait, we haven’t met, have we? I don’t suppose you happen to be another mage?”

She briefly considered saying yes, just to see his reaction, but instead asked, “And what would you have done were I, in addition to being the new Grey Warden recruit, a mage?” 

Alistair gave her a lopsided grin in response. “I would have apologized profusely and begged to be spared life as a toad.”

His words startled a short, wry laugh out of her. The laugh almost drove away her smile, as she realized it was the first time she had laughed since, well, it had been days. But enough time had passed for her to put a leash on her grief until the immediate crisis was over, until she was able to see Fergus. Her rage was far harder to control, but humor and distraction worked best and this Grey Warden seemed as if he would be excellent at both. 

“I suppose it would be difficult to fight darkspawn as a toad,” she mused. “You would probably get stepped on before they even noticed you croaking in defiance.”

Alistair laughed as well, a warmer, freer sound than hers, and then grinned at her. “I like you. Anne, right? You’re Teyrn Cousland’s youngest?”

Anne froze, the pain and fury she’d just been so confident in controlling breaking free. Her father was dead, and she would have to explain that to everyone she met. 

She didn’t know if she could bear it.

~

Alistair saw the woman grow pale as shock dilated her pupils, driving away the rich brown of her eyes. Her fingernails, the blunt and unpolished surfaces of a fighter, not a lady, were digging into her arms where they were defensively folded in front of her. Her entire body was curving inward, clearly in response to great pain, and he had no idea what he’d done.

Duncan had managed to send word that he’d hoped to recruit the Teyrn’s second child, a woman known for her skill at arms, and for being one of the few chosen by a Mabari hound. Alistair wasn’t very hopeful about their other two recruits, one more than the other admittedly, and had been looking forward to hearing of Duncan’s success. But no other word had been sent, and Alistair hadn’t even been aware that Duncan had returned until Anne approached during his conversation with the mage.

What could have happened in three short days that would cause such a reaction? 

He was babbling apologies, hardly aware of the words streaming out of his mouth, and she slowly relaxed. Her breath calmed and her eyes focused on him once again rather than inward, although her skin, many shades lighter than his own golden brown, was still too pale.

“It’s alright, you had no way of knowing,” she said when he fell silent. “I,” she stopped and shook her head. “Please ask Duncan, he will explain. I can’t—” she stopped again, her nails digging so deeply into her skin that he was afraid she’d draw blood.

“How about we talk about why you’re actually here?” he said brightly, rather than forcing her to finish her sentence. She gave him a faint smile of gratitude as her fingers loosened their hold, and nodded for him to continue. “I’m to accompany you and the other recruits for the first task of your Joining. Do you have any questions?”

Her lips quirked upward into a genuine, if wry, expression of amusement. “I have all the questions.” He grinned at her, pleased by the color returning to her face, and she continued. “My recruitment was... unexpected, and I wasn’t up for much conversation on the journey here. I would like to know more about what you know of the Grey Wardens in general, and the Blight, in addition to what is expected of us today.”

“Of course, I’m here to serve,” he told her, glad to see that the smile remained on her face, and then launched into an explanation for her queries. 

When she ran out of questions, or at least questions he could answer, she turned to lead them back toward Duncan. They were both silent as they walked through camp—he assumed she was contemplating what he’d told her, while he was repressing his own curiousity about this woman who had already impressed him with her strength and sense of humor.

A deserter in one of the army’s hanging cages called out to them as they walked by. Alistair ignored it, as he had every time he’d walked by this section of camp, but Anne stopped and approached him. Alistair held his tongue, with effort, as she listened to his pleas for food and water, and watched with amazement as she coaxed some out of the guard to give to the prisoner.

“That was very kind of you,” he finally said, as they walked away, and Anne looked at him with a hint of surprise, as if she’d forgotten he was there.

She smiled, a faint curve of lips that looked like it took effort to maintain. “There is enough pain and suffering in times such as these; there is no need to add to it, and every reason to alleviate it where possible.”

He returned her smile as they turned toward the tent where he and Duncan had been staying with the other recruits, and watched the straight line of her back when she turned away. She was definitely his favorite of the recruits, and he hoped she survived what was to come.

They needed all the help they could get if they were to stop the Blight, and it would be just their luck if all three recruits failed the joining.


	10. Chapter 10

"I've just never faced a foe I could not engage with my blade." 

Anne resisted the urge to sigh heavily, knowing that it would be misconstrued and entirely inappropriate given the circumstances. It was just such a _male_ thing to say, and a male who had been lucky enough to have been born to a family that could afford said sword, and the training to become a knight.

A woman knew all about facing foes with no weapon other than her wits, even if Anne too had been privileged enough to begin training with physical weapons as a child. And her mother had made sure she never forgot how lucky she was, both to be born to their station, and to be born to a family that encouraged all of their children to learn the physical arts if they wished.

Perhaps it was callous of her, but after Howe’s treachery, after a night of more bloodshed and loss than she could think of without so much pain it overwhelmed her, it was hard to be patient with Jory’s fears. He’d agreed to this, they all had, for whatever reasons were theirs, and it was far too late for nerves. She wanted to have this done, one way or another, and Daveth’s words on the necessity of their actions were entirely true.

Stopping the Blight was imperative, more important than anything. It was the only reason she _was_ here, instead of in the wilds searching for Fergus and the hope that she still had family left alive.

It was no time for second thoughts.

But Jory could not hear her thoughts, did not share her knowledge, and after Daveth fell, his fear drove him to his death on Duncan’s blade.

Anne did not hesitate when offered the cup, undeterred by the blood of her fellow recruit on Duncan’s hands. If she died, she joined her loved ones. If she lived, she would fulfill her parents’ dying wish and help stop the blight so she could avenge her family. Either way, she was unafraid of what was to come.

There was pain, and a vision of a creature that would fill her with terror if she hadn’t already been numb.

After the pain faded, they welcomed her to their order. She was once again the lone survivor and she felt weary bitterness at the thought that such a title was her fate.

Weary bitterness that faded into her earlier callous indifference as Alistair handed her an amulet to remember the loss of her companions. Daveth's death was easier to mourn, someone who’d understood the need and had been willing to pay the cost. Jory's she would mourn out of guilt rather than true grief, guilt and regret that they could have had one more grey warden to help them in their quest.

And neither of their deaths registered in the slightest against her other losses, or the burning need to keep moving, keep fighting, so that she did not succumb to any grief.

She would remember her dead, all of them, and she needed no trinket for that.


	11. Chapter 11

Her dreams were tangled, bloody things. The stench of burning darkspawn, her father bleeding out in their cellar, great stones slamming into the bridge as she ran. Her mother stabbing a man in the neck with an arrow, a soldier with his throat ripped out—by blade, claws, or teeth she did not know. The foul breath and impossible strength of the ogre, the gleam in the dragon’s— _demon’s_ eyes as it stared at her, as it _knew_ her. 

She woke with a shuddering gasp, her heart keeping time with the aching throb in her head. Reality felt weak, like she was still dreaming, and it took her several moments to register that the witch, Morrigan, was actually there and speaking to her. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t,” Anne shook her head, trying to dispel the images that still clung and clouded her mind. She registered that she was wearing only her smallclothes, and that she was in a bed, and looked back up at the other woman. “Where am I? What happened?”

“I am Morrigan, if you have forgotten, and we are in the Wilds, where Mother and I have been caring for your wounds.” Morrigan looked at her with those eerie golden eyes and her mouth curved into a faint smile. “You are welcome, by the way.”

“Thank you,” Anne responded automatically, courtesy drilled into her at a level deeper than conscious thought. “But I don’t understand. What happened? Why am I here and not at Ostagar?”

“So you do not remember Mother’s rescue,” the other woman said in lieu of an answer, then shook her head. “It is not surprising, you were already unconscious when she plucked you and your companions from the tower.” Her voice took on a tinge of exasperation. “Your friend has feared you dead, and reacted very poorly.”

“My friend? Alistair?”

Morrigan nodded. “And your hound, who has been far more sensible about the events of the day.”

Anne still felt sleep muddled, or perhaps something else, and did not understand. “I remember the darkspawn overwhelming us after we lit the beacon. How long has it been? Duncan will surely be wondering where we are.”

Morrigan’s face took on a grimmer cast, all remnants of humor and malice gone from her eyes and voice. “The man who was to respond to your signal quit the field; the darkspawn won your battle. The King and all your fellow wardens are dead.”

It felt like she’d been punched, felt like the heavy grasping fingers of the Ogre as it tried to squeeze the life out of her. Dead. All dead. It couldn’t be true. The King and Duncan and all those men and women, they couldn’t be gone. They _couldn’t_. She could not be the only survivor of yet another tragedy. “I need to see Alistair. Now.”

Morrigan nodded, something that resembled sympathy in her expression even as amusement quirked her lips up once more. “I suggest you put on some clothes first; although perhaps the sight of you like this will improve his mood.”

Anne chuckled roughly, despite herself, and reached for the pile of clothes and armor that was sitting on the edge of the bed. When she was done, she turned to the other woman. “Thank you, Morrigan, for all you have done.”

Morrigan’s eyes widened and she seemed unusually hesitant when she responded. “I, you are welcome. Though mother did most of the work. I am no healer.”

Anne didn’t argue, just thanked her again and then left the hut. Flemeth was facing her, but Alistair was looking out over a small pond and she could see the grief weighing his shoulders down. She was not the lone survivor this time, _they_ were, and she felt guilty that she was grateful for not having to face this horror alone. 

But not guilty enough to stop her faint smile when he turned and saw her. She could only hope that he would be as glad of her survival as she was of his.


	12. Chapter 12

Anne was entirely too weary and bitter to be surprised that they were being blamed for the King's death and the slaughter at Ostagar. Why wouldn't Loghain have compounded his treachery with deceit? He’d been foolish enough to risk a grab for power when Ferelden was facing an oncoming Blight—it should not have been any surprise that he was foolish enough to continue to hound those who had the best hope of stopping it from swallowing their country whole.

When the time came, they would make him eat those lies, along with the sword that should have gutted him on that battlefield.

She was pleasantly surprised that the authorities in Lothering didn’t seem willing to buy into Loghain’s defamation. It gave her hope that her and Alistair’s quest would not be blocked at every turn by their new reputation as monarch slayers.

But she was most surprised by their new companions.

Morrigan had been unexpected, if welcome. She knew Alistair didn’t trust her, but Anne had neither his Templar background nor his understandable distaste for a woman who needled him at every turn, and she was glad to have the assistance of a mage. Perhaps especially a mage who had never been bound, or taught, by Chantry and Circle rules.

But the lay sister, Leliana, and the Qunari, they were a little further outside her experience and she was not yet sure if their assistance would be more help or hindrance. Despite her personal reservations about them, however, she would happily admit that both of their new friends were skilled fighters, and seemed content enough to follow their lead. Or rather, her lead. Which was another aspect of her new life that she wasn’t entirely comfortable with.

She had been raised to be a leader—as Fergus’s heir until Oren was born, and for her own merits as her parents prepared her for her probable life as the wife and partner of another high-ranking noble. She had never expected to be leading a group of people quite like this, nor to be responsible for decisions that were so deeply important to the fate of Ferelden itself. But as long as she did not think about the true gravity of what they were doing, it was easy enough to fall back on the lessons learned at her parents’ side.

But it didn’t sit well. She was the newest of the Wardens, and though Alistair might be the only other survivor, he’d had six months to learn about their order and its purpose. He was also older than her, if again only by months, and had faced their enemy many more times. Yet he, too, was content to follow her lead, and she wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.

He said that he didn’t have much more experience than her, he said that it wasn’t worth arguing about. He said a lot of things, and none of them seemed quite true. Oh, she didn’t think he was lying. But she also didn’t think he’d even admitted part of whatever it was that made him afraid (and she was pretty sure it was fear) to take charge. But unlike Morrigan, she had no desire to poke at personal wounds and so she kept her curiousity to herself and did not complain about being the leader of their ragtag group of potential heroes. 

Someday, assuming they survived both their companions and their quest, she would figure Alistair and his demons out. 

She had a feeling he was worth the effort.


	13. Chapter 13

Anne and Alistair were sharing watch duty, both unable to sleep thanks to dreams of the Archdemon, and Anne decided to break the silence. Alistair had been visibly grieving, far quieter than she’d come to expect after meeting him. She hadn't tried to break that silence, and had done her best to shield him from Morrigan's needling. But maybe that was the wrong course. She wasn’t yet ready to talk about her grief, to give voice to her pain and guilt; but maybe letting it out would help him, provide some measure of peace.

And maybe helping him would give her some of the same.

She sat down next to him on his chosen log, leaving half a foot of space between them for emotional distance. "Do you want to talk about Duncan?"

His head, already turning towards her, snapped around, his eyes wide. "You don't have to do that,” he said, his voice hesitant and soft with sadness. “I know you didn't know him as long as I did."

"That doesn't mean I don't mourn his loss," she responded in a quiet voice. And it was true. Duncan had been kind, at the darkest moment in her life, and she’d respected his commitment to the Wardens and their purpose. She would have gladly served at his side, and, for her, his was the face of all the lost wardens, the comrades-in-arms she never got to meet before they were betrayed.

"I...I should have handled it better,” Alistair said, after a long moment of silence. Like hers, his voice was quiet, hushed, in the cold night air. “Duncan warned me right from the beginning that this could happen. Any of us could die in battle.” Anne nodded, it was a hard lesson to learn, one every training master she’d had had done their best to pound into her and Fergus’s skulls. No one was immortal. In the end, it had been Howe who taught her that lesson best.

“I shouldn't have lost it, not when so much is riding us, not with the Blight and... and everything. I'm sorry."

Anne shook her head, hesitating for a moment before reaching out and placing her hand on top of his. “Don’t ever apologize for grieving. Our dead deserve mourning.”

He smiled faintly at that, shrugging his shoulders with a faint creak of armor. "I'd... like to have a proper funeral for him. Maybe once this is all done, if we're still alive. I don't think he had any family to speak of."

Anne couldn’t imagine not having any family, not really. Even dead, her family was as much a part of her as her own heart beat. "He had you," she offered, wondering how many Wardens only had each other. Wondering if that was all she’d have, from then on.

"I suppose he did,” Alistair agreed, firm for a moment before his voice faltered again. “It probably sounds stupid, but part of me wishes I was with him. In the battle. I feel like I abandoned him."

Anne closed her eyes, breathing through the sharp pain of his words. She _had_ abandoned her family. Left them to their deaths in the cellar. And no matter what her head knew about needless sacrifice and duty and hard choices, her heart would always bear the guilt of that betrayal. “I understand completely," she said, when she could speak without her voice breaking.

"Of course I'd be dead, then, wouldn't I. It's not like that would make him happier.” His words echoed her thoughts, the same litany of reasons she repeated to herself every night so she could sleep. Her parents had wanted her to live, and that was the only thing that kept the nightmares of their accusing faces at bay.

Alistair shook his head, shaking away his own demons she assumed. “I think he came from Highever, or so he said. Maybe I'll go up there sometime, see if I can put something up in his honor."

She smiled at him, pained. She hadn’t realized that she’d shared a home with Duncan. That he too might have loved the lands they’d had to flee.

Alistair’s eyes widened again and he grimaced, expression dark with self-recrimination. “How stupid am I to forget. Here I am going on and on about Duncan and you...I’m so sorry.” The sincerity in his voice hurt almost as much as the verbal recognition of her loss and she turned her head away, unable to meet the shared sorrow in his eyes.

They were silent for another long moment, and then he took her hand, the one she’d forgotten next to his, and squeezed it gently before letting go. “Thank you. Really, I mean it. It was good to talk about it, at least a little. And,” he hesitated before plunging forward. “If you ever want to. Talk that is. I’m happy to listen.”

She let out a shaky breath, her eyes burning, but managed an attempt at a smile in his direction. "Maybe I'll go to Highever with you, when you go. Help you find the right place for a memorial."

His answering smile was firmer than hers and he nodded. "I'd like that. So would he I think."

It was a nice future to imagine. One in which they both survived, in which Fergus was alive and their family lands were restored, lands she could use to give Alistair a place for a memorial for Duncan and all the lost wardens.

It was a nice future she didn’t have enough hope left to believe in.

But she would try, for Alistair’s sake, and her own. Without hope, their task was doomed to failure, and for every family still alive and intact in Ferelden, they couldn’t afford to fail.


	14. Chapter 14

“So just how _did_ you come to have a Mabari warhound?” Alistair asked Anne as he dropped onto the grass and watched her carefully touch up her hound’s warpaint with supplies purchased in Lothering.

She finished the design she was working on and set the brush back in the bottle, then looked at him with a smile that warmed her face, smoothing away the concentration lines. “I was almost nine and it was my brother’s thirteenth birthday.” Her eyes were sad, but her smile did not fade as she continued. “He wanted a hound and my father had arranged to take us to the Kennel Master who lived in Highever.”

She shook her head, smile widening. “None of the dogs so much as looked at Fergus, but this one, still half grown, broke away from his trainer and came barreling toward me. He stopped just before reaching me, and then knocked me down with a head butt.” She looked down at Puck with clear affection on her face. “Gently, of course; I was small and it didn’t take much. He started licking my face and wouldn’t stop. I was giggling like mad and everyone was staring.” 

Puck barked happily and she laughed. “Yes, I’m talking about you, you silly mutt.” She turned back to Alistair, who was grinning to see her so relaxed and happy. “The Kennel Master told my father he might as well let me pick a name and agree to a price, because a warhound could slip any harness when they found someone they wanted.”

Anne shook her head again, one of her arms looping around Puck’s neck as she leaned into his side. “Fergus was so mad at me, but,” her smile took on the same hint of sadness as her eyes, and more than a trace of stubbornness. “I can be charming when I want to be, and he’s never been good at holding a grudge.”

“Oh I am quite convinced of your charmingness,” he told her, aiming for more teasing than warmth in his voice and hoping he succeeded. He wasn’t quite ready to admit to either of them just _how_ charming he found her.

She grinned at his words, and then laughed as Puck pushed against her until she was sprawled in the grass. “Am I neglecting you?” she asked the hound, then laughed again as he started enthusiastically licking her face.

Alistair was laughing too; the sight of two such fierce warriors playing was unexpectedly adorable, and welcome, in the midst of the gloom that had overtaken the rest of their lives. Anne shot him a teasing glare. “You’d better not be laughing _at_ me. You said you were raised by dogs, after all, giant slobbery ones. You should be quite familiar with this kind of thing.”

“Ah, but they sold me to the Chantry, remember? And the Chantry does not believe in fun,” he told her solemnly.

“Except for pillow fights,” she agreed, equally solemn, and then they were laughing together while Puck barked at both of them.

A part of Alistair felt like it was a betrayal, to laugh so soon after the rest of the Grey Wardens had been slaughtered. The rest of him knew they would have been the first to box his ears for foolishness if he’d retreated into despair.

Besides, laughter had always been a tool to him (and a pleasure), a weapon the same as the sword strapped to his pack. If he could wield it to the benefit of the one Grey Warden he had left, he would.

And of course it had nothing to do with the way her eyes sparkled when she laughed. Nothing at all.


	15. Chapter 15

“Oh but girls are lovely,” Leliana said, gesturing with her hands for emphasis. “Their skin is so soft and they smell wonderful.”

Anne nodded, biting back her grin as she watched Alistair out of the corner of her eye, trying desperately to look like he wasn’t listening to them while ostensibly repairing a weak spot in his chainmail. “Yes. More expressive too.”

Leliana gave her a wicked smile. “Ooh yes, very vocal; if you know what you’re doing of course.”

Alistair dropped his knife on his foot and let out a low curse. Anne grinned and Leliana smothered a giggle with her hand. “Not all girls are soft though,” Anne said, warming to their subject. “There was a woman, Regin, one of my father’s knights, and it was not her softness I appreciated when I watched her in the salle.”

“I’ve never been with a lady knight before,” Leliana confessed, leaning closer to Anne with obvious interest. “Is it more like being with a man?”

Anne shook her head. “I’ve only been with one man, but I found the differences to be more individual to the person than to their sex. And I appreciate strength and stamina in both,” she said, with a somewhat dreamy sigh of remembrance. Regin had not returned her flirtations, too conscious of the difference in their age and rank, but one of the palace guards, younger and less circumspect, had been more than willing to show Anne just how enjoyable it was to have a partner strong enough to lift you with ease.

“I kissed a boy once,” Alistair mused. Anne glanced involuntarily at Zevran, who had been lurking nearby, and saw him turn to stare at the other man with a combination of surprise, pride, and outright lust. “It was kind of wet,” Alistair continued, his face crinkling with vague distaste.

Anne couldn’t stop her own reaction at that confession and hid her face in Leliana’s shoulder so he wouldn’t hear her choked-off laughter. Leliana patted her on the back, her shoulders shaking as she muffled her own giggles in Anne’s hair.

“Do tell us more,” Zevran purred, dropping down to sit next to Alistair who blinked in surprise and shook his head. “That’s all there was really. I didn’t enjoy it the first time, so I didn’t see any reason to kiss him again.” He laughed, and turned to look at Anne and Leliana with a grin that lit up his face and pulled an involuntary sigh of appreciation out of her when she turned her face away from Leliana’s shoulder. “He certainly didn’t smell nice.”

“I agree with our lovely leader that every lover is different,” Zevran said into the ensuing silence. “There are men who smell nice and have soft skin. Perhaps you would enjoy kissing one of those more than the apparently smelly boy?”

Alistair darted another glance at Anne, red staining the brown of his cheeks. “Girls sound nice too,” he muttered, and Zevran laughed and clapped him on the back.

“They are my friend, they are.”

Anne bit her lip, grinning as she looked away from Alistair’s blush. Girls were very nice. And Anne usually preferred them to boys. But this boy, well, he was rapidly becoming her favorite. And she looked forward to showing him that kissing girls could be very nice indeed.


	16. Chapter 16

“So, Bann Teagan was very….complimentary toward you,” Alistair said, breaking the silence as they made their way through the tunnel that led to the underbelly of Redcliffe castle.

Anne laughed, carefully ignoring the part of her that thrilled at the hint of jealousy in Alistair’s voice. “Yes he was. It wasn’t surprising, I’m used to that sort of thing from men like him.”

Alistair turned his head and grinned at her. “Well someone is very confident about their attractiveness.”

She shook her head, returning his grin. “No, it’s not that,” she paused and winked at him. “Although if you want to start telling me how beautiful I am now I won’t object.” He blushed at the reference to a more private conversation and her grin widened as she heard Leliana chuckle behind them. 

“But that wasn’t my point. I’m the highest ranking woman in the land besides the Queen and—” she stopped again, her throat closing with grief. She coughed to clear it and did not meet Alistair’s warm gaze, unable to bear his sympathy when there was work to be done. “Well, my mother, before.” She took a deep breath and managed another smile. “And unlike them, I’m unmarried. Every unmarried male Bann, Arl, or son of one, has been flirting with me since I grew breasts.”

Not just the males, although those were the ones with marriage on the mind, but she thought Alistair might have actually melted into the packed dirt of the tunnel if she’d told him about her encounter with Bann Alfstanna at the last Landsmeet. Not to mention her very intimate friendship with Delilah Howe.

That conversation could wait until he'd stopped blushing at the very suggestion that they might see each other naked.

"That sounds, exhausting. And unpleasant," Alistair said after a moment, his voice unusually serious. Leliana murmured her agreement and Anne gave them both a wry smile.

"It made it difficult to trust what anyone said, or to enjoy any attempts at wooing," she admitted, choosing not to dwell on the poorer choices she'd made when it came to romance. "But I am well aware of how lucky I was. They might have all been trying to snare me, but my parents had no intention of marrying me off against my will. Which makes me luckier than most of the women, and a good portion of the men, in Ferelden."

"And now, well." She grinned, and reached out to pat Alistair’s cheek, earning a mock scowl from her not-yet-lover and a belly laugh from Leliana. "I am definitely enjoying the attempts at wooing."

Alistair flushed and glared at her, though not in true anger. He muttered something she couldn't quite hear before taking a deep breath and straightening his spine, showing off the broad, muscled expanse of his shoulders. Leliana gave him an appreciative leer behind his back, winking at Anne, who swallowed her laugh as Alistair fixed her with a serious stare.

"Good," was all he said, before marching ahead of them into the further recesses of the tunnel, Puck trotting at his heels. Anne couldn't help her laugh at that point, and wrapped her arm around Leliana when she leaned into Anne's side, also laughing.

"Oh you two, so adorable," she said after they caught their breath. "And you get to train him up all proper."

"Mmm, definitely not proper," Anne disagreed, with a lecherous wink of her own.

Leliana grinned delightedly. "Even better."

"I can still hear you!" Alistair shouted, and they both smothered more laughter with their hands. "If you could stop plotting my sexual doom, I'm pretty sure I hear more of those creepy corpses."

"Coming, dear!" Anne called back, and exchanged one last grin with Leliana before hurrying down the passage.

Sexual doom. She was definitely mocking him for that later.

After she’d saved him from the walking undead.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a drastic tone shift for this chapter, but then again we are hanging out in the Dragon Age universe.

"When we first met," Anne said quietly, looking at Alistair over the flickering flames of their small fire. "You said Cailan intended to ride with the Grey Wardens, and you wondered if it was because he thought his father would have done so. Did you ever know your father?"

Alistair shook his head. "No, I didn't know either of my parents. Nor did I know my brother, only of him." Anne couldn't imagine that kind of loneliness, and didn't know how to express regret for him without it being taken as pity. He spoke again before she could find any words. "It is not what I would have chosen for a family, but it is hard to mourn what you did not have." His eyes were dark with compassion and his words hit her like a punch to the gut.

She breathed through the pain, through the memories of _her_ family, so warm and affectionate and so much a part of her that she still felt hollow, like she’d left organs and part of her soul back in the cellar with her parents. "I still don't know if my brother is alive. I can't," she paused before her voice could break and shook her head. "I can't be the last of the Couslands." The thought of Fergus being _gone_ , of her last piece of family fallen in the wilds never to be seen again, was too much. She couldn't speak those words, couldn't express that pain, so talked of practicalities instead. "I don't even know if Grey Wardens can also be Teyrnas."

Alistair shrugged his shoulders, still watching her with compassion that hurt nearly as much as the furious grief clenched in a fist around her heart. "I don’t know."

Anne breathed, deep and slow. "If Fergus is still alive, I don't know how to tell him what happened. How do I explain that our parents are dead? That his wife and son—" she stopped and looked away, staring into the flames until she could blame the heat for the burning in her eyes at the memory of Oren's tiny body, broken and bleeding on the floor.

“After we have finished with the Blight, or it has finished with us, Arl Howe has much to answer for,” was all she said, once she could speak again. In Alistair’s eyes, glinting in the light of the campfire, she could see the same desire for justice, for vengeance, that drove her, and knew he was thinking of Loghain. She smiled, a cold smile, before turning her gaze away once more.

More bound them together than just the bonds of being Grey Wardens, and she was glad to have found someone she could call a true friend (and more, if all went well) in the midst of such despair. Perhaps they would help each other survive what was to come, and if not, she trusted that they would help each other cut down their enemies until they could stand no more.

Sometimes, that was all one could ask for.


	18. Chapter 18

“What did it, the demon that is, show you in the Fade?” Alistair asked as he sat down beside her. It was her turn for watch, not his, but she was not surprised that his dreams woke him, just as they’d kept her from sleeping before Sten fetched her after his watch.

She turned to look at Alistair as she decided how she was going to answer him, allowing herself to appreciate how handsome his face was in the firelight and resisting the urge to distract them both with activities far more pleasant than the facing of their own demons.

“I saw Duncan,” she told him quietly, and felt her lips quirk into something a bit too dark to be a smile when he jerked in surprise. “Duncan and Weisshaupt fortress. Apparently the demon thought I would find it easier, or happier, to believe he had survived and the Blight was defeated than to have my family restored to me.”

“I don’t know what I would have done if I’d seen Duncan,” Alistair admitted quietly, then shook his head. “I’m just grateful you were strong enough to break free, and find the rest of us.” He looked away from her, staring into the fire. “They train us, as Templars, to resist mental compulsion, but it completely fooled me.”

Anne reached out and took his hand, glad for the small intimacies that were becoming more common between them. “It’s not your fault.” His head ducked down in doubt and she laughed bitterly, not at him, but at her own memories. “It made it too easy; if there’s one thing Arl Howe and Loghain’s treachery taught me, it’s that nothing is ever easy.” 

He looked up at her at that, face soft with compassion for her pain, and she laced their fingers together. “If it had guessed better, I might not have freed myself at all.”

Alistair raised her hand to his lips and placed a gentle kiss on her knuckles. “I am glad that you were spared the pain of fighting your own family.”

“It’s what I dream about, now,” she admitted, his actions loosening the last hold on her tongue. “That it did show me them. Sometimes I choose to stay, even though I know it’s wrong. I can’t decide if those are worse than the ones in which I must kill them. Or,” it was her turn to look down, unable to look into his eyes and maintain her composure, “the ones in which I let them kill me.”

Alistair made a distressed noise and reached out to pull her close, despite the fact that her armor couldn’t have been comfortable against the scant protection his night clothes provided. She was grateful that the others were sleeping as she let herself relax into the comfort he offered, her face tucked into his neck as his arms circled her waist. “I wouldn’t have,” she told him. “If the demon had given them back to me, I wouldn’t have chosen them over you and the others. And I am glad of that, but it doesn’t take the guilt away.”

“Nothing ever does,” he agreed quietly, and she closed her eyes, angry at everyone and everything that had given them cause to know the guilt that came when you were the only one left standing.

And deeply, deeply grateful, that he _was_ still standing, here with her, so she did not have to bear that burden alone.


	19. Chapter 19

Alistair began the slow process of disentangling himself from Anne without waking her, part of him still in disbelief that _he_ was waking in her tent at all. Their night together had been, well, not to sound like the trashy novels he certainly hadn’t read while he was supposed to be studying the Chant of Light, but it had been more perfect than he could have imagined. He only wished it didn’t have to end.

A sentiment Anne seemed to share as she stirred, then reached out a hand and caught his wrist although her eyes were still tightly closed. “It’s not morning yet, come back to bed,” she said with a sleepy pout.

Alistair smiled at her, more than a little terrified of the sheer happiness he felt, and leaned down to brush a kiss across her forehead. “It is my turn for watch.”

She frowned, still not opening her eyes. “Get Zevran to do it. He owes me, for that thing with the farmer.”

He laughed, and then considered the idea. Crawling back into bed with her was certainly more tempting than spending the next few hours outside in the cold. “I will ask him,” he promised.

Anne made a small noise of satisfaction and released his wrist. “Hurry back,” she said, her eyes finally sliding open as she smiled warmly at him, and he grinned, stomach tightening with affection and desire. 

“I will.” He stepped out of the tent and shivered in the cold, not having bothered to don his armor. He walked the few short steps to Zevran’s tent, rubbing his hands up and down his arms in a vain effort to ward off goosebumps. The act of poking his head inside was enough to wake the assassin, who sprung to his feet with a blade in each hand only to slump when he saw it was Alistair.

“Is it morning already? Or do you simply like to terrify poor elves who are waiting for assassins to murder them in their bedrolls?”

Alistair chuckled. “Neither. Anne wants you to cover the next watch. She says you owe her.”

Zevran pouted, his knives disappearing somewhere Alistair couldn’t see and didn’t want to think about. “You seduce one farmboy and suddenly everyone’s a critic. You Fereldens have such strange notions.” He glanced at Alistair, still in his small clothes, and smirked. “You seem to have figured things out, finally.”

Alistair flushed and Zevran laughed throatily. “Very well, tell your lovely lady that I shall cover watch,” he paused and grinned, one sly finger touching the corner of his mouth. “And tell her that I congratulate her on _her_ seduction going so well.”

Alistair was still muttering to himself as he slipped back into Anne’s tent, and she raised a questioning eyebrow at him even as she lifted the blanket so he could crawl back in beside her welcome warmth.

He cleared his throat and knew a blush was burning on his cheeks as she curved herself into his body. “Zevran wanted to compliment you on your seduction skills.”

Anne stopped moving for a moment and stared at him, then started laughing, burying her face in his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, unable not to, but could not stop a frown at the thought that she might have been laughing at _him_.

“I’m sorry, it’s just. Last night was _not_ a seduction. At least not Zevran’s idea of one.” She looked up at him, her chin resting against his sternum, and smiled archly. “Besides, if anyone was doing the seducing, it was you.”

“Oh, is that so,” he said with a sudden grin, letting one of his hands trace down the smooth skin of her back. Her eyes darkened in response and he pulled her up his chest to claim her mouth for a kiss. “Well, consider this my next attempt.”

She laughed into his mouth, but didn’t protest, and soon they were engaged in activities far more fun than sitting watch. The pettier part of him hoped that Zevran’s excellent hearing was forcing the assassin to listen in; the rest of him was far too busy, and happy, to think of anyone but Anne and how glad he was that they’d found each other, regardless of who’d done the seducing.


	20. Chapter 20

Wynne pulled her aside while Alistair bartered with a merchant and Anne raised one eyebrow, curious as to what the older woman, who rightly had little shame, would want to ask her in semi-privacy. 

“You are quite taken with each other, aren’t you?” she asked, voice warm, and more than a bit arch.

Anne did not blush as her lover would have, but smiled as she turned her gaze back on Alistair, amused by the look of good-natured exasperation on his face as he argued with the elven merchant. “Yes, quite.”

Wynne’s answering smile was not as warm as Anne had expected and her stomach clenched when the other woman spoke again. “I’ve noticed your blossoming relationship, and I wanted to ask you where you thought it was going. Alistair is a fine lad, skilled in battle, but quite inexperienced when it comes to affairs of the heart. I would hate to see him get hurt.”

Anne raised another eyebrow, biting down on her initial desire to make it clear that her relationship was none of Wynne’s business. She genuinely liked the older woman and perhaps more importantly, in the midst of a war such as the one they were fighting and when one’s companions were forced to travel in such close quarters, it _was_ , in a way, her business. However much she did not like Wynne’s tone, or implications.

“Are you saying I might hurt Alistair?” she asked, instead of saying other, harsher words. It was a foolish question, there was always potential for hurt in any relationship, much less a romantic one, but she was curious as to what specific warning Wynne intended to give.

“You are both Grey Wardens, and he is the son of a king. You have responsibilities that supersede your personal desires,” Wynne cautioned, and Anne felt her face grow cold.

“I need no reminder of my responsibilities Wynne, nor his, and we are both capable of managing them in addition to our relationship.” Her tone was curt, almost rudely so, and she could not bring herself to care. She had lost too much to risk losing more because of her love for Alistair. And she had sacrificed too much to give up that love unnecessarily.

Wynne persisted. “Love is ultimately selfish. It demands that one be devoted to a single person, who may fully occupy one’s mind and heart, to the exclusion of all else. A Grey Warden cannot afford to be selfish. You may be forced to make a choice between saving your love and saving everyone else, and then what would you do?”

Anne stared at her, fighting back the urge to say something unforgivable. The suggestion that she would do less than her duty, _she_ who had lost her entire family and sacrificed vengeance and the search for her brother because of her duty to the Blight, was offensive and cruel. “So you would have me end this, then?” she asked, voice tight and carefully controlled.

“You may have to, to save one or both of you unnecessary anguish later on.”

Anne laughed, a bitter sound, and shook her head. “You and I disagree very much on the definition of unnecessary.” She was grateful that Wynne had come to her with these concerns, and not Alistair, who might have been swayed out of guilt. “More importantly perhaps, it is too late for that and I am glad of it. Even if I ended things now, it would not only _not_ prevent pain if and when either of us dies, it would cause _unnecessary_ pain during every moment until that time.” She took a step forward, closing the distance between them, and lowered her voice so that no one else could overhear.

“I know my duty, and I will not hesitate in it, no matter the cost. The price I have already paid, the price Alistair has already paid, has been in pain and loss and blood. It is not selfish to find love and hope amidst the despair and ruins we have been given. It is not selfish to give warmth and comfort and support. It would be both selfish, and foolish, to deny us both that out of fear.” She remembered one of her first conversations with Alistair and shook her head again. “War steals too much from us all, for us to willingly surrender what little good remains.”

There were tight, white lines around the other woman’s mouth, but she did not refute Anne’s words so Anne took a step backward, out of Wynne’s personal space. “I appreciate and respect your wisdom and assistance in our quest to stop the Blight and restore peace to Ferelden, but you are not the only one who has learned life lessons. I would ask that you remember that we, too, have lived through much sacrifice before you make such assumptions in the future.”

She turned and walked away before the other woman could respond, holding a tight leash on her anger. Alistair was _hers_. He was the only thing she had left, other than her hound, and the increasingly heavy burden of stopping the Blight, along with Loghain and Howe. 

The careful love they had built between them was the only thing that kept her from dreading each new dawn. That love was _theirs_ , only theirs, and she would not allow anyone to take it from them until she no longer drew breath, or he wished for it to end.

Alistair seemed to sense her mood as she stood at his side, one of her hands buried in Puck’s fur, and looked away from the merchant with a concerned expression. She shook her head and forced a smile. This was not a conversation she wished to have in front of witnesses, and Wynne had already moved to rejoin them.

He finished bartering for food and poultices, and they made their way out of town, toward the camp where the rest of their companions were resting in preparation for the next day’s march. She was silent on the way back, letting Alistair and Wynne carry the conversation. She didn’t trust herself not to snap at the other woman, and she needed time to calm her emotions.

She managed to maintain enough banter during dinner that no one other than Alistair picked up on her mood, and he followed her, a determined expression on his face, when she retired to what had become their tent immediately after. 

The tent flap had barely closed behind them before he was pulling her close, tilting her chin up with one large, warm hand. “What is wrong, my love? You have been upset since the market place.”

She slipped her arms around his neck and pulled him down for a kiss that quickly turned greedy, her anger shifting into fierce desire as she held him as close as their armor would allow, devouring his mouth until the need for oxygen separated them. His warm brown eyes were startled, but pleased, and he touched her kiss-swollen lips gently, a silent question on his face.

“I love you. So much it hurts sometimes,” she told him, voice soft but urgent. A faint frown line wrinkled his brow, but he smiled anyways.

“I know exactly what you mean.”

She laughed at the second unexpected reminder of their first meeting, and rested her cheek against the cool metal of his armor, wishing that it wasn’t there so that she could have heard his heartbeat. “Wynne seems to think we would be better off without each other. That it would hurt less if one of us dies if we were not together.”

His arms tightened around her, almost painfully so given their strength and the inflexible armor between them, but she did not protest, only clung as hard as she could. “She is wrong. Nothing would make it hurt less,” he said after a long pause, his voice ragged with emotion.

She smiled, baring her teeth where he could not see, and then looked up at him through her lashes. “You are mine, and I am yours, and I will not give that up, not for the archdemon himself.”

He stared at her, eyes soft with wonder, then lifted her until her feet barely touched the floor, despite her height nearly matching his. “Good,” he said, voice as hard as she’d ever heard it, and then sealed their mouths together. 

Anne felt love and triumph well within her breast and closed her eyes, losing herself to the pleasure they created together. She’d underestimated him, and she thought Wynne would be unpleasantly surprised by his reaction if she chose to air her concerns to him.

But none of that mattered; all that mattered was that he would be by her side until one of them fell, and she would battle all of Ferelden to stave off that day, however inevitable.

Duty without hope was doomed before it began, and he was _her_ hope. 

Hope she would never surrender.


	21. Chapter 21

"You know, I really hate armor sometimes," Alistair muttered. Anne raised her head from where she'd been wearily contemplating her sword as she cleaned the blood off of it. 

"Why?" 

"Because you look like you need a hug; I know how much you hate it when we have to fight hounds, and hugs are impossible with armor. And we don't have time to strip. And when we do have time to strip, hugs are usually not on our minds so much as, uh, other things." Alistair flushed at his last words, his hands awkwardly waving in the air to convey the words he wasn’t speaking.

She stared at him for a moment, and then laughed, her mood lifted nearly as much as it would have been had he been able to give her that hug. “Hugs are nice,” she agreed, then smiled slyly. “Although, I have a certain appreciation for you in the Warden Commander armor we found in Soldier’s Peak.” His eyes widened in pleased surprise and she winked at him. “You are _very_ handsome in that armor.”

“Is that so?” he asked, his voice taking on that confident purr that surprised her every time. “Well, I’ll have you know that you are incredibly adorable in that helmet with the horns, the ones that curl?”

Anne wrinkled her nose. “I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to look menacing in that, not adorable.”

He grinned at her, his eyes dancing. “Who knows? Maybe the darkspawn have an aversion to cute, and it strikes fear in their cold, shriveled hearts.”

She laughed, picturing them fending off the ravening hordes with fuzzy rabbits and stuffed toys. “I think the war would go much differently if that were true,” she said, grin fading as she reached out a hand out toward him. 

He took it, lacing their fingers together, and she raised it to her mouth, dropping a kiss on his palm despite the blood and grime caked into the crevices. “More importantly perhaps, I am fond of your armor because it keeps you safe. I would sacrifice more than hugs for that benefit.”

His answering smile was soft, before a mischievous glint slipped back into his eyes. “Then we just need to get Wynne and Morrigan to create magical armor that allows for hugs, but can stop any blow.”

“I’m sure they’ll get right on that if we ask,” Anne said dryly, and Alistair laughed, then kissed her fingertips before dropping her hand so they could both return to the gruesome work of post-battle cleanup.

Anne almost wanted to broach the topic with Morrigan, just to see what the other woman’s expression would have been before she stalked off in disgust. There were many ways to lift one’s mood after all, and the prickly woman’s reactions to her and Alistair’s relationship rarely failed to amuse.

Although honestly, she would have rather had self-cleaning armor, however many hugs she missed out on.


	22. Chapter 22

"I would like to discuss what happened, at the Gauntlet," Wynne said that night after they’d made camp, approaching her and Alistair, who had been her silent shadow ever since they’d left the mountaintop.

"Well I would not; I think you’ve already said enough, don't you?" Anne asked, the rage in her voice barely contained as Wynne's eyes widened ever so slightly in response to the uncharacteristic sharpness of her tone. The hint of chastisement in the older woman's face was enough to make her rage burn brighter and Anne spoke again, despite her desire not to, her voice cold and cutting. "My guilt, grief, and fury over my family's death burns within me every day. As does the knowledge that had I chosen them, I too would be dead, and there would be one less Grey Warden to fight the Blight. There was no _simple_ answer to the spirit’s question, and there never will be. Anyone who thinks otherwise is a callous fool, who has faced no loss or pain of their own."

Her eyes swept over Wynne, and Alistair, who looked as guilt and grief stricken as he had when the Guardian spoke to him. "I expected kinder, of both of you, but it seems my trust and respect were misplaced."

The calm patience of Wynne's expression was fading away and Anne shook her head as she turned, unwilling to hear whatever the other woman had to say, even if it was an apology.

Her heart _ached_ , more even than her sore and weary muscles, and she did not know if she needed to cry or scream. She did know that she refused to do either here, in the middle of their camp, with the eyes of all their companions upon her.

Puck followed at her heel, a loyal, comforting presence she did not know what she would have done without. As soon as they were out of sight of the others, around a curve in the mountain trail, she sunk to the ground and wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his fur.

The Guardian's words had been so unexpected, bitter blows that had brought to life every ounce of pain she’d buried since she arrived in Ostagar. On their own, they would have been enough to shake her, to ruin her sleep with nightmares far darker than those of the archdemon. But her companion's words had been the knife in the back that followed an unexpected punch to the gut. And every step they'd taken afterwards, the spirits who had spoken of their own guilt and grief, the sight of her father… It was only strength of will that had kept her from collapsing, from giving up before they reached the end.

The trek out of the temple and back down the mountain had been silent, heavy with things said and unsaid, until she’d been ready to tear her skin off rather than spend another moment in the company of others.

Her reticence spoke for her indeed, she thought with an angry snarl. Who wouldn’t have been reticent to speak of such things when confronted by a strange spirit? Had she been expected to bare her soul, to freely discuss the guilt and grief that ate away at her every day at the thought of her parents facing death in their cellar?

The words of the Tevinter Lady lingered in her mind, "Blood can only be paid with blood." She wondered how much blood would need to spill before all the crimes that had occurred would be satisfied. Before the deaths of everyone in Highever, the deaths of the Wardens and the King's men in Ostagar, the deaths of those who had fallen at _her_ hand, would be paid for.

Or if they never would, and the rest of her life would be an endless river of blood, until it swallowed her whole.

She was not sure she deserved the mercy that Archon Hessarian spoke of. She was not penitent for her sins, and she intended no mercy for those who had betrayed them.

But mercy from her companions, instead of salt in the wound, that she would have been glad of.

~

Alistair had regretted his flippant curiosity as soon as he’d seen the look on Anne's face. The way it had shut down and gone cold at Wynne's words. The broken sound of her voice when she’d seen her father.

Humor had always been his weapon of choice, wielded for laughter and deflection, and he _was_ curious about that night. She had spoken of her pain, of her anger, of her hope that her brother was still alive, but Anne had never spoken of details. He hadn't even known that her parents were alive when she and Duncan fled.

But he did know _her_ , and he’d known better than to take his usual teasing approach to a wound so fresh, especially in front of others.

He had seen her hesitate, when they’d fought the shadow versions of themselves, the way she’d stayed her hand rather than strike at any of them other than herself. She had taken more than one blow at the hands of his shadow self, and the others, that he knew she could have avoided had she wanted to.

It had made him furious, not at her, but at them, for giving her cause to doubt herself, for adding pain to a burden that was already far too large.

She had been utterly silent as she led them fearlessly through the rest of the Gauntlet, speaking only to the appointed guardians, her tone as hollow and empty as her expression.

Even in the midst of battle, she almost always shared a grin with him, and would often demand a kiss even when others were watching. But in the temple it had been as if he and Wynne were invisible, unless she’d been guarding their backs.

When she’d walked through the fire, his heart had nearly stopped, fearing that she’d been sacrificing herself for their quest. Fearing that she would die, hurting, because of them. Because of _him_.

And after, the anger and pain in her voice, the bluntness of her words. It was less than they deserved, but it still hurt, and he too brushed Wynne away before her words could reach him. He had not forgotten the last time she’d angered Anne with misplaced words of wisdom, and he had no desire to hear her explanation. He followed Anne instead, because following her was all he knew how to do.

Following her was all he wanted to do, and he would do so until she bid him to stop.

He did not have to go far. He was barely around the first bend in the mountain pass when he found her, kneeling on the ground, her arms around her mabari hound as her shoulders shook with grief.

She looked up at his approach, eyes dark with sorrow, and after a moment held out her hand. He dropped to his knees, ignoring the clank of his armor as he pulled her close, grateful that he had not pushed her away entirely. She buried her face in his neck, cheeks damp with sudden tears, and he crooned wordlessly, wishing there was something he could have done to ease her pain.

She pulled away after a moment and reached up to hold his head in her hands, expression unexpectedly fierce. “I am glad that you didn’t die.” He blinked at her, not sure where her words were coming from, and shrugged awkwardly.

“Me too?”

She shook her head, a touch of anger lighting her eyes, and then kissed him, swift and hard. “I am not glad that Duncan and Cailan are dead, but I am glad that you are not. And I would not go back and exchange one or both of them for you. Not for any reason.”

His eyes widened in realization and he tried to look away, but her hands held him in place. “Duncan would know what to do,” he said quietly, refusing to meet her eyes, “And if Cailan had lived, he would have kept his promise to you and arrested Arl Howe. How is that not better?”

“Because neither of them are you, and I need you. I _love_ you. I would not want to bear this burden with anyone else at my side.” Her voice was insistent and he could not resist the pull of her gaze, finally looking into her rich brown eyes. “You underestimate your worth,” she told him, and her hands kept him from shaking his head in instinctive denial.

She stared at him until he slumped. “I love you too,” he said quietly, “And I am very glad that you survived Howe’s treachery.”

Her answering smile was shaky, guilt and grief to match his on her face, but she did not speak again and instead leaned in for another kiss. This one was soft with promise and he sighed into her mouth, suddenly overcome with gratitude for her very existence, for the fact of her presence in his life.

He found it hard to believe her words, but he did not find it hard to believe in _her_ , and he would continue to do so no matter what tests and trials they faced. She deserved nothing less.

And maybe, someday, he would live up to her belief in him.


	23. Chapter 23

Anne watched the broad line of Alistair's shoulders and wondered if his muscles were tense beneath the heavy armor. She tore her gaze away from him and saw that Zevran had distracted the others, giving them just enough distance to speak privately, and stepped forward to walk at his side. He glanced at her with a faint, distracted smile, but did not speak, and she frowned, unwilling to let the quiet between them last any longer.

"How do you feel about Arl Eamon's plan? You have been unusually silent since we left Redcliffe."

"It didn't seem like my opinion mattered much," he responded, with uncharacteristic bitterness, and Anne reached for his hand, wishing she could feel his skin instead of gloves between them.

"It matters to me. I believe his plan is sound, perhaps our best chance for winning Ferelden and defeating the Blight, but if you truly do not wish this, we can find another way." 

There was surprise and doubt in his eyes when he looked at her again, and it clenched her stomach with guilt for letting the situation fester for so long. “You would truly go against the Arl?”

She smiled, warm and confident. “Of course I would. A reluctant King is not what Ferelden needs. And _you_ are what _I_ need.” He smiled at that, a hint of flush staining his cheekbones, and she winked at him. “Besides, until Fergus is found, I technically outrank him.”

“They should make you Queen; you’d be better at it than I would,” Alistair said, only partially teasing, and she shook her head.

“You are wrong. You are kind and fair, and stronger than even you know. You could become an excellent King.” He was staring at the ground in front of them now, cheeks still pink and jaw clenched, and she tightened her grip on her hand. “You are Maric’s son, Cailan’s brother. Blood is important,” she said quietly, remembering lessons at her father’s knee. “Sometimes it is all we have.”

“What if it’s not enough? Being a King’s bastard only makes me suited to be the butt of jokes, it doesn’t make me suited to wear a crown,” Alistair said, shaking his head with a dark look in his eyes.

Anne shook her head as well. “I have told you before that you underestimate your worth. You were told your whole life that you were nothing but a bastard, and should expect no more than what you had been given. I think,” she paused, not wanting her words to seem like another harsh criticism but knowing he needed to hear them. “I think you chose _not_ to be a leader, on some level, because it was easier to just accept that they were right. Easier than to try and prove them wrong.”

He winced. “Even if that is so, and may I say that I am both thrilled and deeply uncomfortable that you know me so well, isn’t it almost worse? A King should not take the easy way out.”

She smiled at him, wishing they were not on the road, so near to the others, so she could have pulled him close. “Perhaps not, but a child should not be forced to make such a decision. And it was a child who was forced to. You have a chance to change that now, if you choose to. A chance to accept your birthright, rather than hide from it.”

“And you believe I am capable of doing so?” he asked, a hint of doubt in his eyes, although she could see more confidence in his stance than she had since they’d left Redcliffe.

“I believe you are capable of doing anything you set your mind to,” she told him with another squeeze of her hand, and hoped that he believed her.

He chuckled with no trace of bitterness. “Now you sound like Wynne. Taking over for her as our dispenser of wisdom?”

Anne made a face. “No thank you. I would not seek to advise most of our companions, and I think one meddler, however kind intentioned, is enough.” She tilted her chin up and gave him a teasing smile. “You’re the only one I wish to meddle with.”

He laughed full out, and stopped walking just long enough to tug her in for a quick kiss. “And I am happy to let you do so, my love.”


	24. Chapter 24

"Why are you supporting Bhelen?" Alistair asked her, puzzlement in his eyes. "I know we need the dwarves to choose a King in order to honor the treaty, but Grey Wardens interfering with politics...it doesn't sit well."

Anne smiled, amusement clear as he realized what he said. "Well, I think it's a bit late for that, don't you?" He grinned, though shadows lingered in his eyes, and she smiled back. "As for why Bhelen. Frankly, I would support neither if I could, but we _need_ the dwarves if we are to stop this blight. Of the two, I prefer Bhelen's philosophy, even though he seems far more willing to cross lines that should not be in order to secure victory."

She shrugged. "And honestly? As much as I dislike dirty politics, fighting in the proving when I am not a dwarf and know little of their customs seems disrespectful. First rule of diplomacy is to avoid situations that may put you in hot water with the people you are visiting."

Alistair chuckled roughly. "Things a Templar is definitely never taught. And this is just a further reminder of why I shouldn’t get the throne. If I become King, there will be no escape from dirty politics, and no end of situations in which I will probably offend someone."

Anne leaned up and kissed him on the lips, then grinned brightly. “Well then, why don’t we consider this the beginning of your education in rulership. I’m sure we’ll have plenty of boring moments between the blood filled ones in which I can share the things my father and mother taught me.”

Her lover just looked at her, a hangdog expression in his eyes, and she laughed. This was going to be fun, and if there was anything sorely lacking in their lives, it was simple fun.

~

"The Deep Roads; the end of all Grey Wardens who live long enough to seek them," Alistair said quietly, staring into the dark vastness before glancing at Anne. "It is where Duncan would have come, had he survived Ostagar and the Blight."

It did not lessen his grief, knowing that his mentor would have died not long after the Blight even without Loghain’s treachery. Seeing these tunnels only served as a reminder that he too would return to them one day, seeking death, as would the woman he loved. Provided they both live long enough to do so.

It was not a comforting thought, and it stayed with him as they explored deeper into the caves.

Fighting side-by-side with someone you loved was a blessing and a curse. Knowing they could protect themselves was a heady relief in a life such as theirs, but it was balanced by the helpless pain of watching someone you loved repeatedly throwing themselves into danger.

He loved Anne’s strength, and admired her skill. He followed her for many reasons, and would have done so even if they hadn’t been lovers. But it did not make it any easier to see her take blows in battle, even though he knew he would not have wished her to be elsewhere, somewhere safe and sound, rather than at his side.

Seeing her consumed by a cloud of harmful magic, or struck down by the blade of a darkspawn produced a rush of fear, nausea, and fury that often didn’t leave him until well after the battle was done.

Of course not all post-battle moments were grim. His fierce, bloodspattered beloved, was staring down at one of the deepstalker corpses in uncharacteristic horror. “They made such cute chirping sounds,” she said when he and the others approached her. “I thought they might have been nugs or something.” She shuddered. “What are those heads even _for_?”

He laughed. “I love that you aren’t phased by a giant ogre trying to crush the life out of you, but are creeped out by lizards smaller than your hound.”

She made a face at him, then stared back down at the corpse and shuddered again. “Just _look_ at it. It doesn’t even have a face, just a tube of teeth and poison.”

“I’m sure its mother loves it very much,” Alistair said solemnly, and Oghren snorted.

“Contrary to common wisdom, not all mothers love their children. And that ugly little blighter wasn’t ever loved by no one,” he said with a coarse grin, then spat on the ground. “Now come on, there are worse things waiting for us and I’m in a killing mood.”

Anne scrunched up her face again, then laughed and finally looked away from the creature laying slaughtered on the ground. “Well then we’ll just have to find you something to kill, won’t we?”


	25. Chapter 25

“The taint, is it, is it possible for Grey Wardens to become _that_ ,” Anne asked Alistair, once they’d left the deep roads and she could allow her fear to be seen, even by herself. The broodmother and Hespith’s eerie chant had lingered in her thoughts, images more haunting even than her first true sighting of the Archdemon.

She’d thought she’d come to terms with the darker side of being a grey warden. The way she could feel the darkspawn like they were creeping inside her skin. The dreams and visions of the archdemon, his eyes burning into her soul and the lingering terror that seeped into her waking life. Even the fact that she had no more than thirty years left to live before she was driven to her death by the evil in her blood.

But the thought of becoming like Hespith, eating the flesh of the dead and wasting away in the deep roads. Or even worse, doomed to the fate of the broodmother, twisted into a monstrous creature and breeding more darkspawn to take over her world. That terrified her more than anything. More even than the thought of Fergus being dead, of Arl Howe living his life and never facing justice.

Alistair looked up at her, his eyes hollow and dark with the same fears. She reached out and pulled him to her, across the bed they’d been given in the Dwarven palace. He had no words for her, and she had none that she could offer in comfort. Only herself, and the silent promise that no matter what future awaited them, they would face it together.

His mouth was pliant and soft under hers, but his muscles were tense beneath his skin. She slid into his lap, cradling his head in her hands as she deepened their kiss. She rocked her hips and he groaned into her mouth as his hands reached up to hold onto her waist. When she pulled away, his eyes were softer and he was looking up at her with that wondering awe that never failed to make her want him.

“I love you,” she told him, then took his answering words with another kiss. They were already nude, bathing had been their first priority after the dramatic scene in the throne room, and it was simple enough to raise her hips as she reached between them, guiding him inside of her as she sunk back down. 

He groaned again as she clenched her inner muscles and she grinned against his mouth. Alistair had been a very quick and adept learner in what they could do with each other, but she still thoroughly enjoyed taking the lead. And this particular angle was one of her favorites.

She rocked her hips, picking up a steady rhythm as his hands tightened convulsively on her skin. It took little prompting to get him to move his hands to her breasts, and she moaned as he tweaked her nipples with his thumbs and sucked her bottom lip into his mouth. Alistair shifted, adjusting his legs and she gasped as his movements pushed him deeper inside her. He chuckled roughly, then kissed her again and she dug her fingers into his shoulders to give herself leverage.

Moments like this, when it was just them and their bodies being used for pleasure instead of death, made everything worth it. She rocked faster, seeking release, and he pulled away from her mouth to trail his lips down her neck before latching on to her right breast. He laved her nipple with his tongue, creating suction, and she arched her back, one of her hands moving to grip his hair and the other to press against where they were joined.

His hands fell back to her waist to steady her and she rolled her hips, both of them moaning as the pleasure built higher and higher until they were riding the edge of bliss. His mouth moved back to her neck and he bit down, hard enough to leave a mark. Her nails dug into his scalp and they both cried out as the pleasure peaked. She crashed over the edge and he followed as their bodies shuddered against each other.

When she could focus again, she raised her head from Alistair’s shoulder and kissed his forehead. “We will die in battle, after we have lived long and happy lives together,” she told him, her words a vow to them, and to the Maker she had never quite believed in. 

Alistair laughed into her neck, then pulled her head down so he could kiss her on the mouth. “So romantic, my love.” His smile faded and he kissed her again, then rested their foreheads against each other. “And I will do everything I can to make your words come true.”

Anne smiled and then closed her eyes, listening to him breathe and praying with all her might that she could keep them both safe, through all the trials and tribulations to come.


	26. Chapter 26

Anne readjusted the brace of rabbits over her shoulder and reached down with her hand to scratch at Puck’s neck as they both listened to Leliana’s low, haunting tune. It was a rare peaceful moment in their quest, even with the bloodied results of their hunt dripping onto her armor. A light led the way along the path, swaying slowly to match the rhythm of Leliana’s song. 

The song ended and the light snuffed out. The path wasn’t completely dark, the flicker of their campfire visible through the trees, and Anne exchanged a glance with Leliana as they could just barely hear other voices raised in song, loud and raucous. The voices grew louder, interspersed with laughter, and when they broke through the trees into the clearing the source became clear.

Oghren and Alistair were standing, arms around each other as they swayed and sung a bawdy dwarven drinking song. Alistair was holding Oghren’s flask, and Wynne was holding a bottle of her favorite wine as she sat on a log and sung along. Zevran was across the fire, laughing uncontrollably into his hands, while Morrigan pretended she wasn’t watching with clear amusement from her smaller fire.

Sten was standing watch, his face stoic with no hint of acknowledgment of the antics going on behind him. It was Shale who spoke to them, her stone face contorted into what Anne interpreted as confusion. “I do not understand this human behavior. And the smell is unpleasant. You should not leave them alone again.”

Leliana had joined Zevran at the fire, giggling as Alistair stumbled and almost knocked himself and Oghren into the fire. Anne shook her head and clapped Shale on the arm, carefully avoiding the icy crystals. “Don’t worry, Shale, I won’t.” She had no intention of leaving Alistair alone with Oghren and Wynne ever again; who would have guessed that they would be worse influences than Zevran?

In the meantime, however, she intended to thoroughly enjoy every moment of the spectacle while it lasted. Including torturing her lover through his alcohol sickness the next morning.

~

Alistair moved his head, approaching wakefulness, and then groaned. What in Andraste’s name had done this to him? His head hadn’t hurt this much since his Joining. 

“Good morning, love!” Anne sung out and Alistair winced. Surely her voice wasn’t normally this high pitched and loud? Had some curse affected them?

He attempted to open his eyes and then groaned again as the soft morning light stabbed directly into his skull. Anne laughed, a sound he usually lived for and now wanted nothing more than to stop. “Having some difficulty this morning, dear? Oghren and Wynne didn’t warn you about this part, did they?”

Alistair shuddered, sudden flashes of memory doing nothing to dull the throbbing ache in his skull and everything to make him feel like an idiot. He thought he’d had his fill of this in his first month as a warden. “Hey, honey?”

“Yes, dear?” Anne asked him, her voice rich with amusement as she pressed cold fingers to his forehead, making him sigh in temporary bliss.

“Think you could beat them up for me?”

“I don’t know,” Anne said, placing a flask of water in one of his hands. “That might imply that you’re not wise enough to make your own choices, and we don’t want people thinking that of their future king, do we?”

Alistair fumbled with the flask and managed to pour about half of it all over himself before getting any in his mouth. He carefully squinted his eyes open and managed a pitiful glare. “You are a cruel, heartless woman.”

Anne laughed and then pulled her hand away from his head, placing a kiss there before standing up. “I’m going to go make some breakfast while you figure out how to be human again.” She looked back at him before stepping out of the tent and shook her head, a wide grin on her face. “Do you remember the singing?”

Alistair turned his head and mumbled incoherently into his pillow, his lover’s laugh lingering in the tent after she left. He was _never_ talking to Wynne and Oghren again. Never.


End file.
